


Oh My Oh My Look Like the Boy too Shy

by Gnattynat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:31:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnattynat/pseuds/Gnattynat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe charging into a well-guarded crime organisation hideout directly after a particularly unusual sentimentally-charged encounter wasn't the brightest of ideas. But then again, the siren of "could be dangerous" rarely went unanswered.</p><p>-----------</p><p>Based on a tumblr post/prompt, kiss the Girl scene from the Little Mermaid, johnlock!</p><p>I own nothing but the idea.</p><p>PAUSING BECAUSE OF COLLEGE - Come back in May</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

The last thing John remembered was running toward Sherlock’s location, damning everything like he was wont to do when Sherlock raced before John could catch up. He turned the corner, then ***bam*** nothing but stars.

The last thing Sherlock remembered was being pinned to the floor by Moriarty’s men and hurriedly deducing why they all had gas masks on their faces. Then Jim was standing over him, grinning maniacally through his own gas mask, spraying him in the face. Sherlock struggled but he couldn’t get away. Though he tried desperately not to, as he breathed in, his throat constricted, and ***pain*** then ***stars*** and ***blackness***

 

John awoke on the floor, his head pounding, “Sherlock?” he cried out weakly. How long had he been out? As he leaned against the wall and sat up, his head hurt but his eyes darted about the hallway, searching for Sherlock. _That bastard is going to get himself killed if he keeps doing this_ , John thought with a sigh. A different kind of sigh came out a few moments later as he saw a familiar mop of dark curls inching through a doorway. Sherlock was dragging himself from the room and up on his feet using the doorway. “Oh thank God.” John murmured as he stood and made his way down the corridor to his best friend.

 

Sherlock awoke with a groan, but the groan instantly turned into a fit of pain in his throat. He clutched at his neck, all his groans and grunts of pain morphing into silence. He tried to remain calm. A quick glance around the room indicated Moriarty and his goons were gone. Where was John? He had left him behind, once he had figured out that the last clue had led here. John was good at catching up. He chuckled a little, but stopped as his throat was stabbed with pain. Not as bad as the previous groans, but still bad. Sherlock smiled. Good, maybe whatever was in the aersosol that affected his throat was dissipating. Now to get out of here! He needed to get home and figure out what that aerosol did! He crawled along the floor to the door he had previously burst in through, his heart lifting a bit when he heard his name softly called. John. Sure enough, John appeared above him in short order and helped him up from the floor.

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” John, his voice full of care. Sherlock shook his head no.

“Joh-“ He tried to croak it out, but the pain was so intense in his throat – agent in the aerosol affecting vocal cords, constriction, pain – he couldn’t finish the name.

            John’s worried eyes examined every visible part of Sherlock in a quick analysis. “Don’t speak, Sherlock, you’re hurt. Let’s get you home. The bad guys disappeared, and you need medical attention.”

            Sherlock could only nod, biting back a quick retort. Home sounded heavenly.

           

            John pulled the door of 221B Baker Street open and helped Sherlock up the stairs. He had called Lestrade in the cab over and told him what had happened, while Sherlock had remained silent, staring pensively out the window. It was normal for Sherlock to be very talkative some days and not speak a word on others, but John knew that this was different somehow. There were facts milling around in Sherlock’s mind; John could almost see them. But after his voice had cracked in that hallway, Sherlock had not spoken a word. He had not even made the nonverbal noises he usually made when he deliberately wasn’t speaking. John, being both a physician and Sherlock’s flatmate, had noticed the pain flash across his face when he had tried to say John’s name. Back in the present, he pulled Sherlock to the couch and went to grab his first aid kit.

            Sherlock grabbed his mobile from his pocket. He had to tell John what had happened, about Moriarty, about the gas masks and the aerosol. He had to tell him, he needed his sounding board, but his throat ached and it was like he was gargling glass shards deep in his throat whenever he made any vocal noise. He sent a text to John while he grabbed his kit.

**John, it was Moriarty. – SH**

            He gave it a few seconds and he heard the expected gasp from the next room.

            John burst back in with the kit. “Moriarty? And you went in _alone_?! Sherlock! What happened?”

            Sherlock settled back, fingers flying.

**His men pinned me to the floor. M wore a gas mask and sprayed me with some bloody awful aerosol. Throat hurts, can’t speak. – SH**

            John watched him text and waited for the message to arrive on his mobile. He scanned it quickly and sighed. “Okay, open your mouth”

           

            Some tongue depressors, Q tips, and a medical mask later, John and Sherlock were deep in thought. Swabs of the aerosol had been collected from Sherlock’s face and mouth, and John had not noticed much difference beside the swelling and redness in the back of his throat.

**What did he do to me? – SH**

John sighed. “I’ve no idea, Sherlock. It looks like it will be preventing you from speaking, whatever it is.”

            Sherlock stood, looking determined.

**Lestrade. We have a case. – SH**

            John shook his head. “Sherlock, are you crazy? We don’t even know what all your symptoms are.”

**St. Barts then. Grab the samples. –SH**

            John opened his mouth, but his mobile buzzed again.

**Whatever it is, he won’t stop me John. - SH**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am typing this all out on my phone, since I have no computer and no regular internet. Please forgive these chapters their grammatical errors, I will go through this later on and fix everything, I promise!

They burst into the lab at St. Barts with a bang, startling poor Molly half to death. Sherlock went straight to the microscope, snatching an impromptu evidence bag from John as he passed.

John attempted to apologize. "Sorry Mol, we need to examine this evidence..." *buzz*

**Don't tell her about Moriarty - SH**

John looked over at Sherlock, who was studying something intently, mobile on the counter. "... Yeah, so what meant to say before he started working was, 'please, may we borrow your lab?'"

Molly smiled, confused but always willing to help Sherlock. "Um, sure, go ahead... What do you have to work with?"

"An aerosol was sprayed at..." *buzz*

**Not at me -SH**

"Er, it was sprayed at the victim, and we collected it from the skin and mucous membranes the best we could. We believe the spray caused a loss of consciousness as well as possible damage to the throat and airways."

Sherlock gave a half smirk. John had deduced the loss of consciousness solely on his own. He was learning! As he thought, his throat twitched.

John, Molly, and Sherlock worked away, eliminating possibilities and identifying neurotoxins. They worked mostly in silence, Molly and John talking softly, John and Sherlock's phones buzzing occasionally.

As the slides slid, vials clinked, and machines whirred, Sherlock allowed himself to glance periodically at John. As much as he liked a good murder, he enjoyed the mystery that was John Watson more. The man was so plebeian, so full of unnecessary sentiment, and Sherlock was connecting with this thoroughly ordinary man. There were a myriad nuances engrained in this compact cuddly ex-army doctor, so much so Sherlock could study him for years and never come short of things to ponder. A smile slowly dawned on Sherlock's face as he thought. This friendship was a good thing. Sherlock had not expected John to stick around long, much less become his best (and perhaps only) friend. But as Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought, all of the sudden his throat seemed to lurch, dragging a strange half groan out of his baritone vocal cords.

"What the... Sherlock, are you alright?" John came to his side in a moment, face drawn into a worried doctorly scowl. John, his good and caring John.

Sherlock nodded as another strange sound was emitted from his renegade larynx. His throat felt very odd. The constriction and pain seemed different now. He furrowed his brow, about to ponder this, when he felt John's gentle probing touch on his neck. His fingers were feeling for swelling or other symptoms that hurriedly left Sherlock's mind as he leaned into the touch a bit.

 _That felt..._ Sherlock stiffened, quelching both the half moan trying to gurgle its way out and the _feeling._ Sentiment. A bit not good. He couldn't allow sentiment, even for his one friend, cloud his mind, especially now. He was a man of logic, not of blubbering emotion. John looked up at him from his attentions to his neck, and Sherlock exhaled softly. No, not even for John Watson. His figurative heart sank back into his usual shield of impassivity, and his throat tightened just a little. Curious.

John was very worried, but he tried not to let it show, knowing Sherlock wouldn't likely care for the sentiment involved. When his friend had made those strange noises though, John went straight into doctor mode. As he leaned close and felt his flatmate's neck for his larynx, he became aware that this could be seen as a bit intimate. He tried to control his breathing, staying calm and professional. He couldn't be starting to think that way, he was just doing his job. Sherlock was likely asexual anyway. Not that it mattered! John wasn't gay. Oh good grief, why was he even thinking about this? Sherlock stiffened, and John felt a bit ashamed. Surely he had deduced at least half of John's thoughts by virtue of the relative acidity of his breath or something off the wall like that. Did he think he was being too emotional? Oh God. He chanced a glance up and Sherlock sighed. John was totally unprepared for what he saw. A half smile quickly removed as his eyes looked up, normal, Sherlock hiding that he enjoyed having a friend. But when John noticed Sherlock's eyes, his widened. They were _very_ dilated. Attraction. Asexual sociopathic Sherlock. What the bloody bugger.

Molly stood there watching the two men. She had suspected that something was wrong with Sherlock when he burst into the lab, strangely silent, and with John's description of the effects of this aerosol, she was piecing together what was going on. John had pretty much confirmed several suspicions just now, stroking Sherlock's neck like that. Why didn't Sherlock want her to know? Did he not want to look weak in front of her? Or was it...

"Jim did this, didn't he? He hurt Sherlock." Sherlock looked at her in wonder as John guiltily jumped away from him a bit. She smiled. "I'm not unintelligent, Sherlock. Plus I have womanly intuition."

John chuckled. "Molly, if Sherlock wasn't already in this predicament, I'd say you would have struck him speechless." This earned him an elbow to the side, and a bigger smile from Molly.

Sherlock whipped out his mobile to send a scathing text to John, wehen it buzzed in his hands.

**The data you gave us led to a small town, just about where you said. How's the voice? -Lestrade**

Sherlock smirked and showed John the text. Then he looked at Molly and grabbed a nearby notepad.

_You are correct in your deductions. I was under the impression that you did not want to hear about Jim since you two were romantically involved, albeit formerly. I have a high regard for your mental faculties, you need not worry in that regard._

He shoved it quickly in her direction and grabbed John's arm while texting furiously with his other hand on his way out the door.

**The game is on! -SH**


	3. Chapter 3

In the cab, Sherlock was agitated, texting John and Lestrade seemingly every few seconds. John sat somewhat pensively, thinking about what they’d discovered about Moriarty’s “anti-Sherlock spray” as John and Molly had dubbed it in their texts since the men left, much to the detective’s displeasure. They had identified several neurotoxins, many of them strangely modified. They’d left Molly with all their data, Molly updating them via text of her findings. Moriarty was an odd duck, but hopefully there was some rhyme or reason to his incapacitating Sherlock’s vocal cords. Of course, Jim was also a psychopath and very prone to impulsive criminal activity. But this seemed fairly well planned, Jim preparing a highly modified neurotoxin, messing with the case Sherlock was on to attack and drug him. The whole thing was fishy really. What did Moriarty have to gain right now by silencing Sherlock? Then a scarier thought hit John. Was there a cure?

Sherlock was restless. It was very irritating to be unable to speak. He kept holding back all of his usual snarky remarks, which in and of itself was tiresome, but adding that to withholding all of his deductions and it was near torturous. So he texted. He texted Molly, he texted Lestrade, he _almost_ texted Mycroft, but most of all he texted John. John, his faithful blogger, his flatmate, his best friend, was always there when Sherlock needed him, even when he rushed off after a clue, leaving John behind. Most people thought they were shagging, much to John’s protestations and chagrin. Sherlock never really thought about shagging in general (aside from its presence in cases and deductions), but if he were ever to do so, perhaps John was a viable partner. Hmm.

Then..

**_CROAK_ **

The cabbie jerked the wheel a bit as the two men in the back were startled out of their thoughts.

The first thought Sherlock had was that the constant pain had lessened a great deal. Oh joy and rapture!

John’s first thought was to ensure Sherlock’s airway hadn’t closed up. He had raised a hand to Sherlock’s neck when…

“Joh-hn..”

“You spoke!”

“Ye-…” Sherlock’s face contorted with pain once more. His eyes caught John’s gaze and he applied his mind to unraveling this interesting repeat occurrence. His eyes lit up after a moment and he whipped out his mobile.

**John, I think I stumbled upon a tentative respite. I have been thinking of a specific thing each time my throat has done this. –SH**

John was once again looking into Sherlock’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but remember that the last time he saw them this close they were dilated, much like they… are… now… _Bloody…_  The text chime interrupted his mind’s expletives. He glanced back up to see a genuine smile grace the consulting detective’s features. Damn it all, but John’s heart fluttered at that moment. He was not gay! What the bloody hell… Their faces were very close now, and he could feel Sherlock’s breath breeze across his lips.

            “Oi!! Not in my cab! Save it for the room. Blimey gits…” As the cabbie muttered to himself in the front, the two men jerked away and Sherlock gave an involuntary little yelp.

            John shook his head and glared out the window, upset with himself. _Maybe dilated eyes are one of the symptoms of Moriarty’s drug concoction! If it becomes uneven, Sherlock could be about to have a stroke, or perhaps the drug could be having similar effects to cocaine or meth, and all I’m bloody thinking about is snogging the poor man! I’m a doctor for goodness sake! I should be alarmed, not aroused._ He went through all the scenarios in his head and scowled harder.

            Head swimming with unexpected endorphins, Sherlock sat back and stole a glance at John. Squared shoulders, set jaw, fists clenched. This was upset yes? Anger? What was he angry about? Sherlock did a mental recap.

_Sherlock’s throat made another unusual noise. Sherlock says John’s name. Sherlock texts John. A strangely heated look is exchanged between Sherlock and John. The cabbie yells at them. John is angry._

Sherlock sighed. This is precisely why he hated sentiment; it confused him immensely. What caused John’s ire? Was it the throat squeal? No, John had looked worried, not mad. Saying his name? No, he had smiled. Sherlock paused a moment to smile at that, but his throat twitched, and he continued his deductions. Maybe it was the text. There had been several previous instances of Sherlock’s texts making happy smiling John into angry scowling John. Or maybe it was the look. Sherlock’s heart rate sped up just thinking about it. His metaphorical heart had slipped out of his shield of impassivity for a moment then, looking into John’s concerned eyes. Obscure thoughts had arisen, thoughts of embracing John, being held by John, John kissing him because he didn’t know how, laying together with John, and Sherlock had hastily thrown all those thoughts in a random hall closet in his mind palace when the cabbie yelled. Now he peeked in at them and shook his head. What were all these thoughts doing in his analytical mind of all places? He had only had a few fumbling experiences of this sort back in his uni days, and none were very fulfilling.  
He had since decided that relationships and dealings of that nature were not worth the trouble and he thought he had deleted the data…

Sherlock nearly slapped his forehead. The solution was practically staring him in the face. He was attracted to John. John was obvious more versed in this area, and had figured it out much faster than Sherlock had. Now John was angry, because John prided himself on being heterosexual, because John made sure everyone know they were only flatmates, because he is “Not GAY!” Sherlock and John were “colleagues” in John’s mind, that’s what he told Sebastian during the banker case. John didn’t share Sherlock’s new found sentiment. Wounded now, Sherlock’s figurative heart ached and his deducing scowl slipped into a frown. Of course, this explained everything satisfactorily. Sherlock’s eyes watered, which only confused him more. It must be the polluted particle in the air, irritating the eyes after running through the cab’s faulty air conditioner and filthy air ducts. Even to Sherlock that seemed spurious, but he clung to it, willing the moisture away and shoving this thoughts to the side. There was silence the remainder of the ride.

They soon arrived at the station, and bought tickets to go to the small town Lestrade had mentioned. Sherlock was determined to finish this case, voice or not. Moriarty would not stop him, not now.


End file.
